


alive and well

by olivja



Series: darling, dearest, dead [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:15:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivja/pseuds/olivja





	alive and well

At approximately one fifty-three in the afternoon on any given day, a young man with spectacles and wide, brown eyes could be spotted entering the Café Musain. Such was the case on the day Éponine Jondrette kissed Cosette Fauchelevent's cheek. The young man first sat at the counter, not needing to voice any words to alert Musichetta to his regular order.

The facts were these: Franklin Combeferre, twenty four years, ten months, eight days, and eleven hours of age, had been in love with Éponine Jondrette, the Musain's pie maker and resident opposite Sleeping Beauty and wild harpy impersonator, for nearly two years. His love was a devotion, and while their relationship never passed the borderline of friendship, the medicine student, with his spectacles and gangly limbs and textbooks under his arms, would bustle into the Café Musain every day. For no pay, he would assist in waiting on tables, cooking, or just simply take a booth or a table or a seat at the counter for himself, and gaze at the pie-maker as she ignored all of those around her.

Needless to say, Franklin Combeferre of twenty four years and ten months, born to Etienne and Amelie Combeferre of Arles who could only be described as a less-than-happy couple, was not very hopeful in his lack of romantic entanglements with the Pie-Maker.

Pulled from his reverie of note-taking at the counter with an abandoned, half-eaten slice of Lesgle de Meaux pie (named in honour of a consistent customer of the Musain, boyfriend of waitress Musichetta and of the group's shared friend Joly, who had broken his arm while walking to the washroom - the pie was in commemoration of Bossuet _not_ pressing charges against the Café), Combeferre looked up to Jehan as he stormed through the front doors of the Musain, hair wild behind him as he marched to the counter.

"Where's Éponine?" he demanded.

"What?" Combeferre sputtered.

Jehan picked up Combeferre's fork, stabbing at stray strawberries escaping from the pie, eating them quickly. "Have you seen her at all today? In the last hour?"

"I - what? No? She hasn't been in - Musichetta said she's covering Éponine's shift because she was with you."

"Right," Jehan mumbled, tapping his fingers to his chin. "I'm going - I'm meeting Montparnasse. Tell Éponine to call me, find me, whatever, as soon as she's here."

Combeferre nodded, remaining dumbfounded. "Okay."

In the next moment, Jehan stormed out of the Musain, leaving young Franklin Combeferre to his confused thoughts.

From under the counter popped Éponine, who appeared breathless.

"Éponine? Have you - been there the whole time - ?" Combeferre looked from Éponine to the door and then, helplessly, back to the woman he loved so foolishly.

"No. Don't tell Jehan you saw me."

He nodded, and then panicked as another woman - one he didn't recognize, which was strange, Combeferre knew nearly _everyone_ in the Musain or at least recognized them - popped out from under the counter, hair wild around her face.

The two nodded at each other, and then the new woman wove Éponine's scarf around her face, only her eyes visible.

With that, she walked around the counter and out of the Musain.

"Who was that?" Combeferre asked after a beat.

Éponine paused, opening her mouth and shutting it before speaking. "Cosette."

"Were you just about to lie?" he asked, leaning forward and pointing at her.

"No." A beat. "I wasn't! Yes, okay, I was. Don't worry, it's fine, everything's fine."

Combeferre frowned, and scratched at the back of his neck, under the collar of his denim shirt. "You haven't lied to me for awhile."

The Pie-Maker, of course, knew Combeferre's statement to be a lie. Though unintentional. He knew nothing of her seeming "powers" - didn't know that her and Jehan's escapades really just tended to consist of visits to the morgue and to her Father's funeral home. Éponine Jondrette lied to Franklin Combeferre every single day.

"I'm sorry. It's nothing, 'Ferre, really, it's okay, okay?"

Despite the familiar sensation Combeferre had that it - whatever, in this instance, _it_ was - wasn't okay. He was no fool, as he knew Éponine was aware. Despite this knowledge and despite the tumbling worry he felt, he nodded. Even if the Jondrette girl kept him around simply to keep her secrets, he wouldn't bat an eye.

"Yeah. I won't say anything."

She smiled, looking at him finally, and squeezed his shoulder from across the counter. "Musichetta's fine for my shift, right? It's not looking busy -"

"Yeah. I can help, too."

Éponine nodded, and after a moment with Musichetta, nearly sprinted out of the Musain and up to the apartments that were in the building above it, not sparing a glance behind her at Combeferre.

Franklin Combeferre, to his credit, did not frown or visibly show any signs of concern or hurt feelings. Though he did notice Éponine had never run from him so quickly.

Upstairs and what could be worlds away, Éponine stepped cautiously, eagerly, into her apartment, closing the door behind her quietly.

"Cosette?" she called out, kicking off her shoes and walking into the living room.

"Éponine!" came a high, excited voice. The girl, thin and lanky as she was, came sprinting from - the Pie-Maker couldn't tell. "Hi! Sorry! I was looking through your medicine cabinet. I don't know if I should've said that. But, yes, I was. I mean - is it our medicine cabinet now? I'd expect I'd live here now - that's presumptuous of me, isn't it? I'm sorry - I don't mean to be -"

"Cosette!" Éponine held up a hand, smiling as she did. "It's okay. Just - I understand you're on edge."

"Being dead and then undead - or alive, I guess, is the more appropriate word, because I've got no textbook symptoms of being a zombie -  
Cosette, who at the age of fourteen had bitten her nails to the quick while forcing herself through a forty-eight hour zombie marathon on one of the channels her Father _thought_ he'd blocked, could attest to this knowledge, "so I suppose alive is the right word. Yes."

The Pie-Maker smiled, and gestured to her couch, covered in plaid blankets. "Do you want to sit? I know I explained the jist of things -"

"While I was climbing out of a window and scaling a wall?"

"Okay, I was going to say on the way here, but that works, too."

"Sorry!" Cosette echoed again, covering her mouth. "I'm sorry. Say whatever it was you were going to say."

These were the facts, as explained to Cosette Fauchelevent by Éponine Jondrette: the two could not ever touch, though Cosette was, indeed, free to touch anyone else. Upon questioning, Éponine confirmed this included her skinny, scraggly cat Sabinus, who Cosette insisted looked consistently constipated. (Both Éponine and Sabinus resented this.) Cosette could not see her Father again, and could not again visit the richer areas she had grown up in. She could not see Marius (an rule that didn't seem too bothersome), but could stay in Éponine's apartment for as long as she liked, and could work in the Musain, if she liked. The two young women sat on opposite ends of Éponine's couch, Sabinus between them, and talked of death and fingers and Barbies with their heads ripped off.

Meanwhile, Combeferre had tied an apron around his thin waist, abandoning his bag and books behind the bar and waiting tables while Musichetta filled food orders from the kitchen.

As another customer stepped into the shop and pulled off his jacket, sitting at a booth by himself, Combeferre walked to him quickly, pad and pencil ready.

"Hey!" the man sitting in the booth greeted, smiling rather cheerily.

"Um - hi. What can I get you?"

He considered. "Frappuchino."

Combeferre smiled, adjusting his glasses and ducking his head, kicking his foot. "We don't have those. We've got pie, sandwiches, desserts, the like --"

"Macchiato?"

"No, we -"

"Latte?"

"No! No, we -"

"Americano?"

" _Seriously_?! We're _French_ , no -"

"Espresso Con Panna?"

"…"

"Can I get a Cappuccino?"

Wordlessly, Combeferre nodded, walking back to the bar where he grabbed a mug, gripping the handle as he prepared a plain coffee, pouring hot water into it.

Behind him bounded the man who'd ordered the numerous drinks. He was shorter than Combeferre, and he supposed handsomer - with sharp features, thin lips, and an easy smile. He leaned against the counter, gazing at Combeferre who, despite his spectacles, did not see his admirer.

Combeferre slid the coffee over to the man across the counter, who intercepted it without looking at it.

"If you want milk or sugar, they're over there," he nodded, pointing to a small crevice of the counter that had sugar packets, milk, cream, and little straws to stir. (Above this crevice was a woman-made sign - on a large piece of plain white paper cut out to resemble a cloud read, in sharp, precise letters - 'IF YOU HAVE ARMS YOU CAN SERVE YOURSELF', courtesy of Musichetta on what was a designated "Bad Day".)

The man nodded, though he didn't move away from Combeferre or from the counter. "I'm Remi Courfeyrac."

"Fancy name."

"Yes. Yours?"

"Combeferre."

"Is this a Beyonce thing? A Cher thing?"

"Franklin."

"Franklin," Courfeyrac repeated slowly, smiling. "That's fantastic. Utterly astounding."

"What do you want?"

Smiling as he did, Courfeyrac picked up his coffee and nearly skipped back to his booth. Combeferre wondered if his coffee was bitter, and if he'd mind if it was.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* \\(◕ω◕✿)/ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"Éponine! _Éponine_! Open the damned door, I swear, or I _will_ find an axe and I _will_ impersonate Jack Torrance to the best of my ability -"

No words came in response to Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire's shouts, but Éponine Jondrette did open the door, allowing her to come in.

"Did you take her? Is she still alive?" he asked, kicking off his shoes (and nearly hitting Sabinus, who hissed and waddled away). The tall, lanky man began walking through the hall.

"Jehan - hey! Don't go through my drawers, Jehan, listen to me."

"Éponine," he warned, though he did come to a standstill in obedience.

"I grew up with her, okay? She was - she lived with us after her Mom died. We were children together."

Jehan scrubbed his hands over his face, his eyelids. "Your Dad didn't say anything about the body being gone to her old man, but he thinks we've stolen it."

She nodded quickly - casually, given the situation. "We can pay him off. I can pay him off."

Jehan nodded, pausing for a moment and smoothing back a strand of Éponine's hair. "Where is she?"

Éponine didn't get a chance to call out to Cosette, or to point to the living room, when the supposed-to-be-dead-but-very-much-alive young woman she had both saved and been in love with since childhood let out a shriek.


End file.
